


Support

by DAZzle_10



Series: #TogetherSaracens [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post RWC Final, Rugby World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Part one of a new series, centred around Saracens as a group - their togetherness, their culture and their relationships.Owen struggles after their defeat in the World Cup final; Jamie and George are there to help.
Relationships: Jamie George & George Kruis, Owen Farrell & George Kruis, Owen Farrell & Jamie George
Series: #TogetherSaracens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534616
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Support

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch. Just... ouch. I'm not going to say anymore on it besides well done to South Africa, and I'm really proud of all the boys for what they've achieved. They're a young squad, and most of them have another World Cup in them, which is a really exciting prospect. Hopefully, we'll get an England v Ireland final in France with Owen as Captain, because the Andy-Owen match-up would be incredible.
> 
> Anyway, I'm kind of thinking that there maybe be some new people around, given World Cups reach wider audiences and all of that, so if I'm right about that, I'd just like to say hello to those people, and feel free to say hi - or if you've just never said hi before, y'know... You could literally just comment with 'Hi', or just to talk rugby, even if it's unrelated to this - I'm not fussy.
> 
> Just to explain this particular fic/series, though: it'll be a set of short (probably) pieces centred around the familial bonds of Saracens as a club, the idea of 'once a Saracen, always a Saracen' - which fitted really well into Steve being at the post-match press conference with Eddie and Owen - which won't necessarily be in any way related; I've had won in the works for a while, for example, which would also be a part of the YBWM Verse, whereas this is based rather more on real life. Hopefully, you won't need to be a Sarries fan to like it...

Owen holds himself together for as long as he can. He tells himself that he’s fine through his post-match interview; pulls the team together by sheer force of will to make sure that they know he’s proud of them, proud to be one of them; and tugs his medal from his neck as soon as he can because, although he’ll be pleased to have it one day, the last thing he needs right now is to see the silver glinting on his chest. He has to stay strong right now, for the rest of the team. They need that from their Captain, the same desolation shining through crumbling masks everywhere he turns, and he’s not going to deny them that support.

Instead, he stands in the middle of them all, letting them seek emotional consolation from one another – consolation he isn’t ready to receive himself, because for that, he’d need to admit that he’s breaking apart inside, and that’s the worst thing he could do at the moment – and holds up a flat expression, because they’d see through anything else. When, finally, they make it to the changing room, he doesn’t change his kit, just makes his way slowly around and talks to those who look to be hardest hit, offering quiet words of comfort and praise and avoiding those who know him best. If he gets too close, they’ll see where he’s at, and he’s not about to unload that depth of feeling onto them.

There’s a sense of numbness creeping through him, like a sort of detachment from everything around him. He’s surrounded by men whom he’d do anything for, who he knows would extend the same to him, but he feels so alone, so lost, and the ache in his chest grows with each minute, a cold emptiness as he struggles with the thought that he _doesn’t know_ what they could have done to change this. It just _was_, and maybe one day, he’ll be grateful that they gave it their all in every sense, but at this very second, it hurts almost as much as the loss itself.

Eventually, he settles next to his kit, watching the team from the corner of his eye as he pretends to busy himself with his boots, unfastening and refastening the laces again and again, fingers fumbling the movements as his limbs seem to grow shakier. Several times, he catches his eyes starting to blur, blinking back his swelling emotions each time. A lot of what he’s feeling, he knows, comes down to having spent so many weeks in camp, putting in so much work only for it to end. Just end. There’s nothing more to it, now. In a few days’ time, he’ll start to build on the lessons from this tournament and recognise that the majority of this team can and will keep moving upwards, but right now, he can’t see the lessons, can’t see anything other than that this is weeks, months, years of work all over, scrubbed away in eighty minutes.

“Owen,” Eddie murmurs softly, appearing at his side to touch his elbow gently and gesture towards the door. “Post-match, mate.”

Nodding in silence, Owen unfastens his laces one last time, switching his boots for trainers, then follows his coach from the changing room, Steve on their heels. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, how long he’s spent sitting in his kit without speaking to anyone, but from the expression on Eddie’s face, he guesses that it became a bit obvious at some point.

He’s not sure he can bring himself to care anymore. He’s done his bit for the team, hasn’t he? He’s put in as much as he can, and now he has nothing left to give. As much as he’s fought to keep himself upright, he knows he’ll crumble eventually, and he doesn’t think he’s going to make it out of sight before he does.

“Ten minutes, mate,” Eddie tells him, and he glances over, startled, to find the coach watching him. “Just ten more minutes.”

Stiffly, Owen forces a nod. Another moment, and he’s composed once more, exactly what people need him to be right now – or as close to that as he can get.

Throughout the conference, he focuses mostly on his earpiece, distracted first by how uncomfortable it is, and then by fiddling with it under the table after it gets too much and he has to take it off, barely registering what he sees and hears besides what he needs to. As Eddie repeats ‘four years’ again and again, he can feel his throat starting to tighten, the lights and colours blurring a little before his eyes, and when, after the announcement of ‘two more questions’, he turns his attention to the latest journalist, he realises that if he grips the earpiece much harder, it may well break; quickly, he releases it to rest in his palm.

“It was tough match today,” the man begins, accent thick but understandable, “But did you enjoy this World Cup in Japan? Any special memories?”

_Tough is something of an understatement_, Owen thinks, surprising himself slightly with the bitter thought.

“Um, yeah,” he starts, while he tries to think of something more suitable to respond with. “Obviously, um…”

His airways seem to squeeze in as he speaks, and for a moment, he’s not sure he’ll be able to continue as the sense of loss that he’s thus far held back swells almost overwhelmingly, but somehow, he swallows it down.

“Being straight after the result, it’s tough,” he manages, blinking back the sheen of moisture that stings his eyes. “But, ah… I don’t think – I think –”

He steadies himself with a deep breath.

“I don’t think that’ll take away from how much the squad has enjoyed its time here in Japan,” he continues, and lets himself fall back into the familiar patterns that media training ingrained in him long ago, careful to avoid any mention of ‘personal memories’.

After that, everything seems to slide. Each second draws itself out torturously, longer than the last, and the relief that swamps him when no one else raises a hand almost shows on his face; he just about manages to hold it back but knows that he can’t stay in this stifling atmosphere a minute longer. Tension stiffening his limbs, he doesn’t wait for Eddie to rise – just steps around his own chair and heads for the door, needing the fresh air to calm his head as his lungs heave for something without the apparent consistency of cement.

Shit, he’s had so much worse than this, and it’s really nothing on 2015, nowhere near the heartbreak and shame of that dark time, but somehow, in this moment, it doesn’t seem to make a difference. He _wanted_ this, knows how close they are, knows they could have done it. They just didn’t. _He_ just didn’t.

_We’re going to be kicking stones for four years._

“Owen, mate!”

It’s Steve Borthwick’s arm that slings itself around his shoulder, his ex-Captain pulling him in for a short embrace.

“You take some time for yourself, now, yeah?” Steve murmurs, nudging him down the corridor as Eddie falls into step beside him. “Get yourself changed out of that kit, and let go of the responsibility for one day of your life.”

“You’ve shouldered everything since I first met you,” Eddie agrees quietly. “And I think Steve would say the same. Time to let it go for a bit, mate.”

“Go talk to Jinx and Kruiso, yeah?” Steve adds, and Owen is almost impressed by how easily they’ve managed to make him feel like a 17-year-old again, but he’s too busy holding back an inexplicable wave of tears, because it’s hitting home with frightening clarity how circular everything has really turned out to be so far. “Let Jinx support you, at least. Or maybe the three of you can talk to Will Fraser – and Jackson Wray, when Sarries are done with the game. Just don’t bottle it all up.”

“The team –”

“The team don’t expect you to be fine with this,” Steve cuts that idea off easily. “They know you bleed. They know you wanted this. That’s why they respect you. They don’t need you to be their rock all the time.”

“We’ll look after the team for a bit, mate,” Eddie nudges him as they slow to a stop outside of the changing room. “You look after yourself.”

Slowly, because he doesn’t think he could do anything more for anyone if he tried, Owen nods.

“Alright,” Steve mirrors the gesture, arm detracting from Owen’s shoulders, then the door is open, and Owen steps reluctantly through, unsure whether or not he _wants_ to see the team anymore.

Two steps, and Jamie is with him, arm falling into place where Steve’s was moments ago as George flanks his other side and the two men guide him firmly towards his kit to sit on his section of bench.

“What do you need, mate?” Jamie asks quietly, settling next to him without removing the comfortable warmth of his arm.

Blankly, Owen stares at the ground and searches for anything to say, coming up eventually with a weak shrug.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, even as his eyes sting yet again. “I – I don’t –”

“We’ll get you out of your kit, yeah?” Jamie suggests, soft and cautious as though Owen is a wild animal which he doesn’t want to spook. “Lift your arms, mate – Kruiso…”

“Yep,” George confirms as Owen lifts his arms uncertainly, realisation dawning a moment later as his friends grip the hem of his shirt and tug up. “Left leg, Faz?”

Unable to find it in him to protest, even knowing that the entire team can see him being undressed like a child, Owen lifts the leg in question for Jamie to reach over and slip off both his shoe and sock.

“And your right?” George requests, mirroring Jamie’s actions. “You want a shower?”

For several seconds, Owen can only stare down at himself. His legs are still coated in grime, his skin no longer sticky now that the sweat has dried in place, and he knows he’ll feel slightly better, if only physically, once he’s cleaned himself off a bit.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, and lets George pull him up, Jamie’s hand settling in the small of his back to guide him towards the showers as George reaches out to snag the towel provided from its hook.

Luckily, they don’t attempt to strip him or help him shower, merely standing out of the way of the shower spray, both familiar company and a protective shield from the rest of the world – including the team that Owen tried and failed to stay strong for. Owen remains silently grateful to them as they chat in muted tones, offering one another comfort as well as Owen until finally, the water fades away to a trickle, and then a stop, for the last time, and George steps forward to wrap the towel around Owen’s waist.

“Next time,” Jamie starts, a firm edge to his tone as he wipes some of the water droplets from Owen’s shoulders with his fingers, “Don’t bottle it up, and you won’t get like this in the first place, yeah?”

Owen nods in acknowledgement, taking several seconds to find his voice.

“Thanks, lads,” he manages to croak, to a small smile from Jamie and a pat on the back from George.

“You’d have done it for us,” Jamie points out evenly. “Come on, we’ll get you dressed – I’m not taking the blame if you come down with something.”

The smile that twitches Owen’s lips up isn’t entirely forced, and it’s with an ever-so-slightly lighter step that he lets George lead him back to his kit to dress. He’s not fine with this, not by a long shot, but at least he isn’t so weighed down by _trying_ to be. If he leans a little further into Jamie than he strictly needs to in order to stay balanced as he dresses, neither Jamie nor George call him out on it, and no one else pays them any mind.


End file.
